He dialed Molina’s number and a crisp male voice answered. “Special Agent in Charge Molina’s office, this is Jerry Fowler speaking. How can I help you?”

“This is Detective Sokolov, SacPD. I just saw Ephraim Burton in the airport, a.k.a. Harry Franklin. He’s a fugitive, wanted for—

“I know the name, Detective,” the man interrupted. “Where are you, exactly?”

“In Sac airport, at baggage claim. He was trying to abduct Mercy Callahan, who just arrived from New Orleans.”

“I see,” the man said. There were clacking keyboard noises on the other end. “Have you notified SacPD?”

“Yes. They’re en route. Miss Callahan was injured, but it doesn’t appear to be life-threatening.”

“May I speak to her?”

Rafe studied Mercy, who still stared sightlessly. “No. She’s conscious, but appears to have disassociated.”

There was a long pause with more keyboard clacking. “I see,” the assistant finally repeated. “I’ve notified SAC Molina and our dispatch. Will you be available for interview?”

“Of course. Whatever you need. But I’ll be at the hospital with Mercy. I’m leaving as soon as SacPD gets here and cordons off the crime scene.”

“I’ll send whatever agents SAC Molina assigns to the hospital. Do you need me to know anything else?”

Rafe made himself think. “I don’t think so.” But his mind was coming off the adrenaline rush and he began to remember the things he’d forgotten to tell the 911 operator. “Oh wait, he didn’t have an eye patch, like in his photo from the locket. He had a glass eye. It reflected the light. But his face had tan lines. The area around his eye was lighter, like he still wears the patch sometimes. He also has a little gray at the temples.”

“Noted. Thank you, Detective. Can we reach you at this number?”

“No, this is my sister’s phone. My phone’s still tied up with 911 dispatch.” He gave Molina’s assistant his cell phone number.

“Thank you. We’ll be in touch very soon.”

The call ended and Rafe handed Sasha her phone before holstering his weapon and turning to the woman still kneeling at Mercy’s side. She was sheltering Mercy from the barrage of clicking camera phones, and for that Rafe was grateful. Mercy had just been assaulted. She’d hate having her privacy violated as well.

“I’m Rafe Sokolov,” he said.

“Farrah Romero. I’m Mercy’s friend from New Orleans.” Quiet tears were running down her face, and the woman’s Southern drawl was currently thin with fear and panic. “What happened?”

Sasha had crouched in front of him, sheltering him from the camera phones as well. “Why isn’t she responding?”

“I don’t know.” He gently pushed Mercy’s hair away from her face and cupped her cheek. “Mercy, honey, you’re safe. It’s okay.”

“What happened?” Farrah asked again, more forcefully this time.

“She was coming out of the ladies’ room and . . .” Rafe hesitated, not knowing how much Mercy had told her friend. He opted for discretion. “Someone from her past was there. He tried to drag her away. He had a knife, but it looks like we were lucky and she’s not hurt badly.”